"The tables groaned with the weight of the feast,And many and noble were the guests."
But no spectral form sat beside the bride, although there were not wanting those who half imagined the dead Edmund might appear--roused even from the grave, to see the seat he had occupied so many years in honour and worth, filled by this dark-browed Norman stranger.
"Let us drink," said the courtly bishop, "to the health and happiness of Norman lord and English lady, and may their union be a type of the union betwixt the two people, who, forgetting that they met as worthy foes at Senlac, may live as brethren under the noblest king in Christendom."
The toast was drunk with acclamations; even the English guests thought they meant it in the delirium of the jovial scene, and fancied for a moment that Englishman and Norman might yet live in peace.
"Is it not sweet?" said the good prior to one of the English guests. "It reminds me of the happy time when it is said the wolf shall lie down with the lamb."
"Methinks the lamb is likely in this case to lie down inside the wolf, especially if he be a Norman wolf."
But the speaker, whose attendance was compulsory, or he had not been there, had few sympathisers at the moment.
"Let us hope for the best. Sir Hugo will not, cannot forget the solemn covenant he has made today, to love and to cherish, till death part him and his bride."
"I hardly think, good father, that day is far off, judging by her looks."
The wax tapers cast a sweet, soft light over the pale, sad features of Winifred of Aescendune, daughter of Herstan {vii} of Clifftown, on the Thames, who had but lately, full of years, gone to his rest, spared the sad days of the Conquest--days utterly unanticipated by those who died while Edward the Confessor yet reigned in peace, ere Harold visited the Norman court and swore over the holy bones.
She was but fulfilling a sad duty--at least she thought so--as she played her ill-omened part, sacrificing herself for her boy and her only daughter Edith. For what was the alternative? Was it not to go forth as fugitives and vagabonds on the face of the earth--a prey to every foreign noble--leaving her own dear people of Aescendune to the wolf, without intercessor or protector.
And thus it came to pass that Winifred of Aescendune married Hugo de Malville.
In the days of chivalry the first step towards the degree of knighthood was that of page. Boys of noble birth, about their twelfth year, were generally transferred from the home of their childhood to the castle of some gallant baron to learn the customs of war and peace at his hand, and to acquire habits of good order and discipline. These lads fared harder by far than modern boys do at our great schools; they slept on harder couches, rose earlier, and had less dainty food. They were forced to pay implicit obedience to their superiors; modesty in demeanour, as becoming their age, was strictly required before their elders; and they had to perform many offices which would now be deemed menial.
First they learned how to manage their horses with ease and dexterity; next how to use the sword, the bow, and the lance. They had to attend upon their lords in hunting--the rules of which, like those of mimic war, had to be carefully studied. The various blasts of the horn, indicating when the hounds were slipped, when the prey was flying, and when it stood at bay, had to be acquired, as also the various tracks of the wild animals--the fox, the wolf, the bear, the wild boar. Nights and days were frequently spent in the pathless woods, and the face of the country had to be carefully studied, while pluck and address were acquired by the necessity of promptitude when the wild beast stood at bay.
And when the deer or hart was slain they had to "brittle," or break him up, with all precision, and during the banquet they had frequently to carve the haunch or chine, and to do it with some gracefulness.
All these arts were being acquired at the castle of Aescendune by Etienne de Malville, Louis de Marmontier, Pierre de Morlaix, and Wilfred of Aescendune, all of the age of fifteen or sixteen, but more advanced physically than boys of such years would be now; and, sooth to say, the boys had a stern preceptor in Hugo de Malville.
They slept in a common dormitory in one of the towers, on beds resembling boxes, stuffed with straw, with the skins of the wolf or bear for coverlets. They sprang out when the morning horn blew the reveille. First they attended the early mass in St. Wilfred's monastic church, said at daybreak--for the Normans were very exact in such duties--after which they fenced, rode, or wrestled, and in mimic war gained an appetite for breakfast.
They ate dried meats, as a rule, with their cakes of bread, and washed them down with thin wine or mead, much diluted, and then the forest was generally the rendezvous.
On winter evenings, or when the weather was very bad, the chaplain was expected to teach them a little reading or writing in Latin or Norman French--never in English; and this was almost all the learning they acquired, in the modern sense of the word.
But they knew a hundred things modern boys know nothing at all about, and every muscle and nerve was braced to be steady and true, whether for fight or sport. Our young pages could find their way in the deep woods by observing the moss on the trees, or the sides on which the oaks or elms threw their branches the most freely; and when benighted they could sleep with patience on a couch of withered leaves, and not suffer with a cold in the head the next day. They feared neither wolf nor bear, nor, for that matter, anything save disgrace.
The imputation of cowardice, or of any mean vice, such as lying, was only to be avenged by bloodshed. No gentleman could bear it and retain his claim to the name. But there were higher duties inculcated wheresoever the obligations of chivalry were fully carried out: the duty of succouring the distressed, or redressing wrong--of devotion to God and His Church, and hatred of the devil and his works.
Alas! how often one aspect of chivalry alone, and that the worst, was found to exist; the ideal was too high for fallen nature. Our youthful readers will be able to judge which aspect was uppermost at Aescendune under its first Norman lords.
Nought was changed in the outward aspect of the scene, save that a stern Norman castle, with its dungeons and towers, was rising in the place of the old hall, doomed to destruction because it was ill adapted for defensive warfare.
Such defect had hardly been appreciated in the days of the old English thane, for England had enjoyed half a century of comparative peace, and her people had begun to build like those who sat at peace beneath their own "vine and fig tree," ere the Normans brought the stern realities of war into the unhappy land, or rather of serfdom, oppression, and slavery, only varied by convulsive struggles for liberty--always, alas! destined to be made in vain.
The four pages were one day wandering in the outskirts of the forest, clothed in light hunting dresses--tunics, confined by broad belts and edged with fur; while leggings protected the feet and ankles from thorns. They each had hunting spears and bows, which were borne by young thralls, with sheaves of arrows strung to their backs, while they held dogs by leashes of leather.
He who bore the air of the leader of the party was tall and dark, of slender build, but with all those characteristics which denoted the conquering race; the fearless eye, the haughty air of those born to command. A second, our readers would have recognised as a typical English boy; his nut-brown hair and blue eyes contrasted strongly with the features of his companions, so marked then were those differences which have long since vanished--vanished, or at least have become so shared amongst the English people, that none can say which is of Anglo-Saxon, which of Norman blood, by the cast of the face.
And this English lad, whose dress in no wise distinguished him from his companions, was evidently ill at ease amongst them; from time to time he reddened as Etienne, Pierre, or Louis called the unhappy thralls "English swine," "young porkers," or the like, and bestowed upon them far more kicks than coins.
"You forget, Etienne, that I am English."
"Nay, my brother Wilfred, thou wilt not allow me to do that, but of course in thy case 'noblesse oblige.'"
These last words were uttered with a most evident sneer, and the other lads laughed aloud; whereupon the English lad reddened, then his fists clenched, and a looker-on would have expected an immediate outbreak, when suddenly a change passed over his features, as if he were making a violent effort at self composure.
"Thou hast dropped an arrow, thou young porker," cried Etienne, the while he struck a violent blow with his switch across the face and eyes of one of his attendants; "dost thou think there are so few of thy fellow swine to shoot, that arrows are useless in these woods! Ah! look at that sight there, and take timely warning."
The sight in question was a gallows, from which rotted, pendant, the corpse of an unhappy Englishman, hanged for killing a deer.
"If every oak in Aescendune woods bore such acorns, civilised folk might soon be happy."
Wilfred uttered a deep malediction, which he could not suppress, and, leaving the party, disappeared from sight in the woods.
One of the Norman lads looked after him with some little appearance of sympathy, and when he had gone, said:
"Is it like gentlemen to torment each other thus?"
"Not each other, certainly!"
"He is your brother in a way, the son of your stepmother, the lady of Aescendune."
"He is in a way, but some brothers would be better out of the way than in it, besides--why does he not show fight? A Norman would with half the provocation."
"You could not fight with him," said Louis de Marmontier, who was the youngest of the pages who were learning "chivalry" at the castle of Aescendune, in company with Etienne and Wilfred, under the fostering care of the baron.
"I don't know," said the fierce young Norman, and, breaking off the conversation, switched savagely at the head of a thistle close at hand, which he neatly beheaded.
The others quite understood the action and the bitterness with which he spoke, for they knew that he considered himself defrauded of the lands of Aescendune by the arrangements Bishop Geoffrey had effected in favour of Wilfred.
Meanwhile, plunging into a thicket, and crossing a brook, Wilfred arrived by a shorter route first at the hall, and made his way to his mother's bower, situated in a portion of the ancient building not yet destroyed, although doomed to make way for Norman improvements.
The lady of Aescendune sat lonely in her bower; her features were pale, and she seemed all too sad for one so highly born, and so good a friend to the suffering and the poor; her gaze was like that of one whose thoughts are far away--perhaps they had strayed into Paradise in search of him whose loss was daily making earth more like a desert to her.
Wilfred came and stood beside her, and her hand played with his flowing hair until she felt that he was sobbing by her side.
"What is the matter, my dear boy?"
"Matter! I cannot bear it any longer. I must break the promise thou hast forced me to give."
"Break thy promise, Wilfred? What would thy sainted father say, did he hear thee? And how dost thou know that he does not hear?"
"If he were here he would exact no such promise, I am sure; he would not at least make me appear as a coward in outlandish eyes, and cringe before these proud Frenchmen."
Wilfred used the word Frenchmen with the greatest scorn. He knew that the Normans scorned the name as much as they did the name Englishmen, of which their descendants lived to be so proud.
What was this promise which bound the poor lad as in a chain of iron?
Not on any account to let himself be drawn into a quarrel with Etienne.
"Thy father would feel as I do, dear son, were he in our place. Dost thou not see that we poor English only hold our own by sufferance, and that any pretext upon which they could seize would be used ruthlessly against us? Yes, thy death might be the result of any ill-timed quarrel, and thou mightest leave thy mother alone. Nay, dear, dear son, at least while thy mother lives."
"Oh, how can I?"
"Bear as a Christian, then, if thou canst not as an Englishman. The time will not be long that I shall live to implore thee."
"Nay, dear mother, surely thou art not ailing."
"Sick unto death, Wilfred, I fear; nay, but for thee I should say, I hope; for shall I not then rejoin thy dear father in a land where war and violence are unknown? But for thy sake, dear son, I would fain live."
Poor Wilfred was sobbing by her side, overcome by the blank vision thus opening before him. What would the world be to him, left alone amidst fierce and hateful foreigners, who had slain his father, and would willingly slay him?
"Mother, I cannot live without you. If you die--" and he could say no more, for it shamed his manhood to weep, as he would have said, "like a girl."
Poor lad, we must excuse him.
"Now, my dear Wilfred, wilt thou not renew thy promise, and pray God for help to keep it?"
"Yes, by God's help, at least while you live; but dost thou think thou art so ill, dear mother?--it is but fancy."
"Nay, I feel I am daily, hourly, drawing nearer my end, as if the lamp of life were burning more and more dimly. Morning after morning I rise weaker from my bed, and mortal strength seems slowly and surely forsaking me. But it will be but a short parting; thou must pray that we may live for ever together. God will grant it for His dear Son's sake."
And the mother and son knelt down to pray.
It was too true, the English lady of Aescendune was slowly declining--passing away, drawing nearer daily to the bright land where her lost Edmund had gone before.
It was a complaint which no one understood, although a Jewish physician, whom her husband in his anxiety consulted, prescribed a medicine which he said would ensure her recovery in a few weeks. This medicine the baron--for to such rank had Hugo de Malville been raised, on his accession to the lands of Aescendune--this medicine he would always administer with his own hand. Sometimes Wilfred was standing by, and noticed that, dropped in water, it diffused at first a sapphire hue, but that upon exposure to the air, that of the ruby succeeded.
Oh, those days of anxiety and grief--those days when the loved patient was so manifestly loosing her hold upon life, although sometimes there would come a tantalising change for the better, and bring back hopes never to be realised.
The boyish reader will easily imagine what Wilfred had to bear all this time from his Norman companions, from whose society there was no escape--with whom he had to share not only the very few hours allotted to study, but those of recreation also. Study, indeed, meant chiefly the use and practice of warlike weapons, the learning of the technical terms of chivalry, and the acquirement, it may be, of sufficient letters to spell through a challenge.
So thoroughly was war the Norman instinct, that every occupation of life was more or less connected with it; and the only recreation which varied the hours of fencing, jousting, tilting, etc., was the kindred excitement of the chase, pursued with the greatest avidity amongst the wooded hills around Aescendune.
Wilfred was not backward either in mimic war or in love of the chase; but he was growing taciturn and sullen, scarcely ever speaking, save when spoken to, and even in the latter case he generally replied with brief and curt words.
Hence it may be easily guessed that he was not popular.
For this he cared little; all his leisure was spent by the bedside of his dying mother, whom he felt he was so soon about to lose, and when with her and his sister Edith he felt that home--the home of his happy childhood--was not yet a mere remembrance of the vanished past.
But the sad day, so long foreseen, at length arrived.
She was in her chamber, with her son and daughter--the three were together for the last time on earth. They had been talking of the happy days when the husband and father was yet alive, before the fatal day of Senlac. Alone with her children, she felt far more at peace than usual; it seemed, she said, like the dear old times.
But this evening the presentiment of the coming end seemed strong upon her, and she spoke to her darling boy of the duties which would devolve upon him when she was gone, bidding him be obedient and loyal to his Norman stepfather, that he might have the more power to protect the poor oppressed people of Aescendune, and to shield his dear sister from harm in a world of wrong and violence. She bade him look forward to a better world, where parents and children, separated by death, would meet together never to part, and to live as a Christian man should, that he might not lose so dear a hope. The sun was slowly sinking in the west, amidst gorgeous clouds, and she gazed into the glowing depths, as if she saw the gate of Paradise therein.
It was but a few moments, while they yet lingered in conversation, that her children observed a deadly paleness, a strange gray hue, come over her face; suddenly she extended her arms, and fell back upon her couch.
Wilfred ran for help. Even the Norman servants loved their mistress, and hurried to her chamber; baron, priest, all were there; she lay as if insensible, but when Father Elphege, the prior, arrived, and began the litany for the dying, she raised her head and strove to follow.
That morning she had received the Holy Communion at his hands; and of the familiar rites prescribed by the Church of those days for the comfort of the dying, only the last anointing, after the example of Him, whose body was anointed for His burial, remained, and with humble faith she received the holy rite.
This done, she made signs for her children to approach; she threw her arms fondly around them in turn, but could not speak.
The priest bade them all kneel down, and he recommenced the litany for the dying. Soon he came to the solemn words:
"Per Crucem et Passionem Tuam,Libera eam Domine{viii}."
She strove to make the holy sign of our redemption, and in making it, yielded her chaste soul to the hands of her merciful Father and loving Redeemer. She had gone to rejoin her own true love, and her poor children were orphans in a world of violence and wrong.
They laid her by the side of Edmund, and the same solemn rites we have described before were yet once more repeated. There were many, many true mourners, all the poor English who felt that her intercession alone had interposed between them and a cruel lord--and the very foreigners themselves, whom her meekness and gentle beauty had strangely touched--all mourned the lily of Aescendune.
But her children!--Who shall describe the sense of desolation which fell upon them as they stood by the open grave?
"Comfort them, O Father of the fatherless," prayed the good prior; "comfort them and defend them with Thy favourable kindness as with a shield."
After the last sad rites were paid to the Lady Winifred, a deep gloom fell upon Wilfred, and his sorrow was so great that it won respect from his Norman companions, at least for a time.
He was indeed alone, for the baron had sent his sister Edith to a convent for her better education, as he said, and as Wilfred had none of his own kith and kin about him, he avoided all company, save when the routine of each day forced him into the society of his fellow pages.
Such was the case one fine morning in early spring, a few months after the loss of his mother.
The four pages were in the tilt yard, where there stood a wooden figure, called a "quintain," which turned round upon an axis, and held a wooden sword in one hand and a buckler in the other.
It was the duty of each of the athletes to mount his horse, and strike the buckler full in the centre with his lance, while riding by at full speed, under certain penalties, which will soon be perceived.
Etienne rode first, and acquitted himself with remarkable dexterity; after him Wilfred was invited by the maitre d'armes to make the trial, but he was comparatively unaccustomed to the game.
"Let Pierre or Louis try next," said he.
The two boys, thus called upon, went through the trial fairly, striking the very centre of the shield, as befitted them. And then our Wilfred could not refuse to make the attempt. He rode, but his horse swerved just before meeting the mock warrior; he struck the shield, therefore, on one side, whereupon the figure wheeled round, and, striking him with the wooden sword, hurled him from his horse on to the sward, amidst the laughter of his companions.
He rose, not very much hurt in body, but sadly out of temper, and, unable to bear the jeers of his companions, and their sarcastic compliments on his "graceful horsemanship," he left the yard.
He was trying very hard to learn such feats, and yet could not gain the dexterity for these novel exercises; and, poor boy, he was quite weary of being laughed at, so he went and wandered pensively about in the forest.
He had, indeed, to chew the cud of bitter reflection, for his position was not at all a happy one. Few lads could have more to bear--cutting sarcasm, biting contempt, not openly or coarsely expressed, but always implied plainly enough--constant abuse of his nation, and even of his own immediate ancestors, on whose fair domains these Norman intruders were fattening.
"Oh! it is too hard to bear," thought the poor lad.
And then he saw the unfortunate thralls of his father, ground down by the tyranny of these Norman lords and their soldiery, forced to draw stone and timber, like beasts of burden, for the purpose of building towers and dungeons for their oppressors, urged on with the lash if they faltered.
Since the death of their good lady, all this had been, of course, much worse.
And then, those forest laws, so vilely cruel. Wilfred saw men blind with one eye, or wanting a hand; and why? Because they had killed a hare or wounded a deer; for it would have been a hanging matter to kill the red hart.
Meanwhile he was growing in mind and body; he had now passed his seventeenth birthday, and was beginning to think himself a man; but where were the vassals whose leader and chieftain he was born to be?--where?
The people of Aescendune were diminishing daily--the English people thereof, we should say, for the places of those who fled their homes, and went no one knew whither, were filled by Normans, French, Bretons, or other like "cattle," as Wilfred called them in his wrath.
Everywhere he heard the same "jabbering" tongue, that Norman French--French with a Danish accent, and he liked it little enough. Good old English was becoming rare; the strangers compared it to the grunting of swine or the lowing of cattle, in their utter scorn of the aborigines.
Were the descendants of Hengist, Horsa, Ella, Cerdic, Ercenwin, Ida, Uffa, and Cridda to bear this? and more especially was he, Wilfred, the grandson of the heroic Alfgar, whose praises as the companion in arms of the Ironside had been sung by a hundred minstrels, and told again and again at the winter's fire in the castle hall--was he to bear this contumely? He could not much longer.
And then that scowling, dark, frowning, old Baron--there was a world of deadly mischief in his dark eye, which looked like light twinkling at the bottom of a black well. Once when Etienne was uttering some polished sarcasm at Wilfred's expense, the English lad caught the father's look, and there was something in it which puzzled him for a day or two.
Wilfred knew the baron did not like him, and felt that the hatred was all the more deadly for never being expressed. He sometimes thought that his stepfather wished him to quarrel with Etienne, in the full belief that Norman skill must prevail, in case of a combat.
Single combat. Well, the pages were always talking about it. Etienne knew a brave knight who took his stand on a bridge, horse and all complete, and when any one came by of equal rank, this strange bridge warden had two questions to ask; first:
"Wilt thou acknowledge the Lady Adeliza of Coutances to be the most peerless beauty in the world?"
Supposing the newcomer not to be in love, and to be willing to admit the superiority of the fair charmer, then to him the bridge warden further added:
"Wilt thou admit that I am a better knight than thou--better with horse, sword, and lance?"
If the newcomer said "Yes," he might pass without further toll; if not he must fight, yea, even to the death. And this our Norman pages thought the grandest thing in chivalry.
As yet they had kept from such direct insult as would necessitate an appeal to sword or lance in Wilfred's case, which, indeed, pages could not resort to without the permission of their feudal superiors; but how long would this last?
The promise the poor lad had given to his beloved and lost mother had made him patient for a time; but his patience had been tried to the uttermost.
He looked on the woods which had once echoed to his father's horn: for miles and miles they extended in trackless mazes of underwood, swamp, and brake; and report already credited them with being the haunt of outlaws innumerable.
"Where were all the fugitives from Aescendune?" thought our Wilfred; "did the woods conceal them?"
Well, if so, the day might come when he would be glad to join them.
While he was thus musing, the sun rose high in the heavens, and he heard the horns summon the hunters--he heard the loud baying of the hounds, but he heeded not--he loathed society that day, and satisfying his hunger with a crust of bread, obtained at the hut of a thrall, he wandered deeper into the forest.
The day was hot, and he grew tired. He lay down at the foot of a tree, and at length slept.
How long that slumber lasted he knew not, but he dreamt a strange and gruesome dream. He thought his ancestors--the whole line of them--passed before him in succession, all going into the depths of the wood, and that as each spectral form passed it looked at him with sorrow and pointed into the forest.
At length, in his dream, his father came and stood by him, and pointed to the woods likewise.
Meanwhile a lurid light was rising in the woods behind him, and a sense of imminent danger grew on the sleeper when strange outcries arose from the wood.
He was on the border land, twixt sleeping and waking, and the outcries were not all imaginary. There was the voice of one who besought for mercy, and the laughter and scornful tones of those who refused it; and these, at least, were real, for they awoke the sleeper.
The cry which aroused young Wilfred from his sleep was uttered in a tone of distress, which at once appealed to his manhood for aid.
And it was a familiar voice--that of his own foster brother, the son of his old nurse, with whom, in the innocent days of childhood, he had sported and romped again and again; for distinctions of rank were far less regarded amongst the old English than amongst the Normans--they were "English all."
The poor peasant lad had been so unfortunate as to bring down a hare with a heavy stick. The animal had risen just before him; the weapon was ready; the temptation too great. Forgetful of all but the impulse of the moment, he had flung the stick, and the hare fell. He was just rushing to seize his prize, when the three Norman pages came suddenly on the scene.
"Here is a young English lout, killing a hare," shouted Etienne; "lay hold of him."
And before the astonished Eadwin could fly, the son of his lord fulfilled his own command, and seized the culprit by the collar.
"How didst thou dare, thou false thief, to kill one of our hares? Dost thou not know the penalty?"
The unhappy lad stammered out faint excuses, in broken English; "he had not meant to do it--the thing rose up so suddenly"--and the like. But in the first place his captors did not understand his language sufficiently to make out the excuses, neither were they in the mood to receive any.
"What is the law?" said Etienne; "does it not say that he who slays a hare shall lose the hand that did the deed; and here is a poacher taken red handed. Louis, where is thy hunting knife?"
"We need not trouble to take him to the castle; off with his hand, and let him go."
Their hunting knives, with which they were accustomed to "break up" the deer, were in their girdles, and, shame to say, the other two youths at once assented to Etienne's proposal to execute the law themselves.
So they dragged their intended victim to a stump, and Etienne prepared to execute the cruel operation which he had witnessed too often not to know how to do it.
Poor Eadwin appealed in vain for mercy. They were laughing at his fright, and indeed there was so little sympathy between Norman lord and English thrall, that pity found no place to enter into the relations between them: it was the old Roman and his slave over again.
But an unexpected deliverer was at hand.
Just as the young "noble" was about to execute the threat; when the poor wrist was already extended by force on a rude stump; when the knife was already drawn from its sheath, Wilfred appeared on the scene, and, in a tone the Norman lads started to hear from him, exclaimed:
"Let him go; touch him if you dare; he is my foster brother; my thrall, if anybody's."
"Like cleaves to like," said Etienne, sarcastically; "but, my fair brother, thou wilt hardly interfere with the due course of the law."
"Law! the law of butchers and worse than butchers--devils. Let him go."
"Hadst thou not better try to rescue him? Thou hast not yet found an opportunity to show thy prowess."
Wilfred lost all control, sprang at Etienne, struck him in a downright English fashion between the eyes, and knocked him down. The knife fell from his hand, and Wilfred seized it before the other youths could recover from their astonishment, and flung it into a pond close at hand.
Etienne rose up.
Now my young readers will probably anticipate a bout at fisticuffs; but no such vulgar a combat commended itself to the proud young Norman, even thus suddenly humiliated; neither did he, under these very trying circumstances, lose his self command.
Yet his hatred was none the less, nor did he cherish a less deadly design.
"Let the young brute go," said he, as he arose, pointing to Eadwin. "There is something more important to be settled now than the question whether the young porker shall retain his cloven hoof or not. Wilfred, dost thou know thou hast struck a gentleman?"
"I have struck a young butcher."
"Thanks; churls fight with words; knights, and would-be knights, with swords. Draw, then, and defend thyself; Pierre and Louis will see fair play."
"Nay," said the other two lads with one voice, "it were a sin and shame to fight thus, and we should have our knighthood deferred for years did we permit it. Pages may not fight to the death without the permission of their liege lord. The baron must give permission."
"Wilfred, dost thou accept my challenge? I honour thy base blood in making it."
"My ancestors were as noble as thine; nay, they ruled here while thine were but pirates and cutthroats. I do accept it."
"Let us separate, then; we meet here at daybreak tomorrow."
"But the permission of our lord?"
"I will answer for that," replied his hopeful son.
The party separated: Wilfred took his foster brother, who had not made the least attempt to escape from the scene, trusting to the love of his young lord for protection, and no sooner were they alone than the poor lad overwhelmed his deliverer with thanks, in which tears were not unmixed, because he knew that a price had yet to be paid, and that his beloved master was in danger.
"Nay, nay, Eadwin, I shall do very well--if not, there is not much left to live for now--only you must take care of yourself, or they may avenge themselves on you; indeed, when the baron hears the tale, I doubt not that he will send for you, and then I may not be able to save you--you must fly."
"Not till I know--"
"Yes, this very night--thou knowest the Deadman's Swamp?"
"Well."
"The Normans could never find thee there, and thou and I have threaded its recesses a hundred times; go to the hollow tree where we have slept before now in our hunting days. I will seek thee tomorrow, if I live. If I do not appear before midday, you had better seek our people, whom these tyrants have driven to the greenwoods."
"I know where to find them, but you will come; why not fly to the woods with me now?"
"Honour prevents. And after all, you had better say goodbye at once to those at home, and be off: perhaps I had better say goodbye for thee--it will be safest."
A few more parting instructions, and they separated; the young thrall actually kneeling and kissing his young lord's hand with that devoted love nought save such obligations could give.
Wilfred was returning to the castle, when he met Pierre, who was evidently seeking him.
"Wilfred," he said, "I have come to offer you my services for tomorrow; you will want the offices of a friend."
"Art thou my friend?"
"Yes, since I see thou art not a coward. While I saw thee suffering insult after insult without ever resenting them, I thought thee craven, and could not speak thee fair; now thou art as one of us."
"Thou art not like other Normans, then."
"I am not Norman, but Breton, and perhaps we do not love the Normans over much in Brittany; at least, I can feel for one in thy position."
"Thanks," was all that Wilfred could stammer out.
These were almost the first kind words he had heard since his mother's death, save in those stolen moments when he had been alone amidst his English thralls and churls, and they had been but few.
"Thou art not so skilled in fencing as Etienne; I should advise an hour or two in the tilt yard, and I can tell thee of some of his feints, which are not a little dangerous."
"Thanks, I shall not have too much time."
"Dost thou think the baron will give leave?"
"Yes; he hates me in his heart. Were I the better swordsman, he might not consent."
"I agree with thee--wert thou dead, Etienne would be heir of Aescendune. At all events, thou wilt go to confession and get thy soul in order--betake thyself to thy holy gear--men fight none the worse for a clear conscience. And I would ask the intercession of St. Michael--men speak well of him in Brittany, and tell how he fought acombat a outrancewith Satan, wherein the latter came off none the better man."
"I shall see Father Elphege tonight--we are not heathen, we English."
"Ah! here comes Louis. Well, what news dost thou bring?"
"Good ones. Our lord permits the fight. You should have seen how stark and stern he looked when he saw his son's eyes. Wilfred, thou hast a fist like a smith. Wilt thou do as well with the sword?"
"Tomorrow will show."
"Well, it is quite right of thee to fight for thine own serfs; I would have fought for mine at Marmontier--none should have come between me and them. And I am glad we did not hurt the poor knave. Etienne will be a hard lord for thy people, if anything happens to thee."
Oh, how the memory of his mother and her counsels came before the poor orphan.
Still, how could he help it? He had done rightly, he felt sure; and he knew that his father would say so were hecums alive.
"And so would my grandfather," thought he, "once the friend of the Ironside, of whose wondrous exploits he often told me in olden days around our winter fire. Would his spirit were with me now, and a little of his skill in arms."
And thus musing, he arrived at the castle and betook himself, with Pierre, to the tilt yard. Louis went off to seek Etienne, whose second he was to be.
The night was growing dark when Wilfred approached the priory, with the intention of seeking Father Elphege, and putting, as Pierre had said, "his spiritual gear in order."
As we have remarked in other pages, men then attached no notion of sin to the mere act of fighting--there could not be a duty clearer to Christians of that strange epoch than to fight with each other whensoever the exigencies of society demanded--the very institution of knighthood was bound up with the idea.
So he had no anticipation that the good father would say, "Don't fight."
But when he approached the great door of the priory, with the venerable figure of the patron saint bending over the archway, a messenger--a lay brother--issued forth.
It was almost dark, but the man recognised Wilfred.
"Is it thou, Wilfred of Aescendune, in the flesh?"
"I am he."
"Then I am glad to see thee, for thus my limbs are saved the toil of seeking thee, and my rheumatics make me dread the night air."
"Seeking me?"
"Yes, verily; the good prior desireth thee earnestly, and adjured me to fetch thee without delay; and lo! Saint Cuthbert hath sent thee."
What could the prior want of him? thought the lad; had he heard of the quarrel, through young Eadwin, and did he disapprove of it?
At all events, he would be saved the trouble of many words; and he entered.
He passed along the cloister, with its ceiling of carved wood and its rude wooden crucifix at the end thereof; he looked out at the little green square of grass, enclosed by the quadrangle, wherein reposed in peace the monks of former generations. Once the thought flashed over him, that a similar little grassy hillock might, ere a few hours were over, be raised above his own earthly remains; but that did not shake his purpose.
He ascended a spiral staircase and entered the prior's own cell.
"What, Wilfred! and so soon? Sooth to say, my messenger hath sped."
"He met me just outside the gate, father."
"By the blessing of heaven, my son."
"But why hast thou sent for me, and why this haste?"
"A dying man wishes to see thee--nay, do not start! he has a sad confession to make--one it will harrow thy blood to hear, and he cannot die in peace without thy forgiveness."
"My forgiveness! How has he injured me? He is a Norman, I suppose?"
"Nay, he belongeth not to the proud race of our oppressors; he is an old serf of thy house. Dost thou remember Beorn the woodman?"
"Who slew the deer and sold them in secret, and when the deed was discovered, fled?"
"The same; it is he."
"But what harm hath he done so great that he should come here to ask forgiveness? 'Twas a small matter; at least, it seems so now."
"My son, that is not the matter he hath to confess."
"What is it, then?"
"Prepare thyself, my dear child; now be composed; you must resign yourself to God's will."
"Tell me, father, and end this suspense. What is amiss?"
"Nay, he must do that; I wanted to prepare thee; but tis about thy mother."
Wilfred turned pale at once and trembled, for the one passion which divided his soul with hatred to the Normans was love for the memory of his parents. What had the man got to say about his mother?
"But this is not constancy and firmness--thou quakest like an aspen leaf."
"Tell me, was aught amiss in my mother's death?"
"Didst thou ever suspect it?"
"Yes, but I put the thought away, as though it came from Satan."
"Well, poor child, thou wilt know now, and God help thee to bear it rightly."
Trembling and astonished, Wilfred followed the prior into an adjoining cell, where, propped up by cushions, lay the attenuated form of a dying man--the death sweat already on his brow, standing thereon in beads--the limbs rigid as a recent convulsion had left them.
Any one conversant in the signs which immediately precede death could have told that he had but a short time to live. The good monk, who was supporting him and breathing words of Christian hope into his ears, left him as the prior and Wilfred entered.
The prior took the monk's place, and supported the head of the penitent.
"Look," he said, as he raised him upon his arm, "Wilfred of Aescendune, the son of thy late lord."
The poor wretch groaned--such a deep hollow groan.
"Canst thou forgive me?" he said.
"Forgive thee what?"
"Tell him all, my son, and ease thy burdened mind."
The thrall then spake, in words interrupted by gasps and sighs, which we must needs omit as we piece his narrative together for the benefit of our readers.
"It is five years since I fled thy father's face, fearing his wrath, for I had slain his red deer and sold them for filthy lucre. Woe is me! I had better have trusted to his mercy and borne my fitting punishment; but, as Satan tempted me, I fled to the great city, where men are crowded together thick as bees in swarming time, to hide myself amongst many. There I was like to starve, and none gave me to eat, when a Jew who saw my distress, took pity on me and gave me shelter.
"His name was Abraham of Toledo, a city far off over the salt sea, whence he had come to our English shores in the hope of gain; and he was mighty in magic arts and in compounding of deadly drugs to slay, or medicines to make alive. I became his servant, for I had nought else to do, and I blew his forge when he mixed strange metals, swept his chamber, mixed his medicines as ordered, and did all an ignorant man might do at his master's bidding."
"The wretch! he should be burnt," said the prior, who, like most Englishmen of his day, confounded all such researches with the black art; "didst thou ever see the devil there?"
"I did, indeed!"--the prior started--"but it was a Norman fiend, and his name Hugo of Aescendune."
"How!" Wilfred exclaimed, as he started violently.
"Silence, dear son, thou shalt soon hear," said Father Elphege. "Summon thy courage."
"One evening I was mixing some drugs in my master's laboratory, in a recess hidden from the rest of the room by a curtain, which happened to be drawn, when my master entered the room in company with a stranger.
"'Here, then, is the drug you seek; but it will be very costly--men must pay dear for vengeance,' said Abraham of Toledo.
"'It may not be vengeance, but an obstacle which I wish to remove from my path.'
"'That liquid was distilled by myself from many strange plants in far-off Araby; I may never replace it, and it is worth many pieces of gold.'
"'Thou shalt have them if thou wilt swear, thou dog of a Jew, that it possesses all the qualities thou hast said. If it fails, look to thyself; I am not one to be played with.'
"'The victim who takes but one drop daily shall decline and die within the half of a year; in half that time if the dose be doubled; a quarter if quadrupled.'
"'And no one shall detect the cause?'
"'Call the most learned physicians ye Christians have (dolts are they all), and they shall call it a natural death--consumption--so gradually shall the patient wear away.'
"'I will trust thee; here is the gold.'
"I had seen the man's face through the curtain; but no sooner was he gone than my master descended the stairs, calling for me. I managed to reach him without raising his suspicion, and he pointed out the figure of his visitor receding in the distant gloom of the street.
"'Follow and learn who he is.'
"I followed and dogged him to his lodging--it was the present lord of Aescendune.
"I knew of his marriage--I felt sure whom he wanted to destroy; yet I did not dare show myself at Aescendune, even to save so innocent a life--the life of so sweet and good a lady as she had ever been. But at length disease--an incurable disease--seized me, and the dread of approaching death and judgment has brought me to tell what it freezes my heart to say--all too late to save, but not perhaps to avenge--I tell thee thy mother was poisoned, O Wilfred of Aescendune!"
"Tell me what would be the signs of the drug?"
"If dropped in water, it would, although colourless, impart a blue tinge to the liquid."
Wilfred hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud.
"Dost thou forgive me?" said the dying thrall.
"Thou mightest have saved her, yet I do forgive thee."
"I might; it was my sin, and she was my liege lady, the gentlest and kindest."
"Thou art forgiven; but oh! my father! who shall do justice on the murderer, the poisoner?"
"That is thy task; the son must avenge his mother's blood, and do justice on the murderer. Listen, Wilfred: Dost thou remember Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances?"
"Well," said the poor boy, "he married them; but he, too, is a Norman--they are all alike."
"Nay, there be wise and good men amongst them, and this bishop is one. Thou shalt seek him, for he is now in Oxford: thou shalt start this very night, and tomorrow thou mayest reach him. I will give thee the written confession of this most unhappy but penitent Beorn, and the bishop will hear thee, and justice shall yet be done. But thou must depart at once, or he will have left the city. I will give thee food, and my palfrey shall be at thy service in an hour's time. And now, my child, while the food is preparing, go and pray at thy mother's tomb, and ask for grace to seek justice, not revenge; for it is not fitting the murderer should lord it longer over thy people and thee!"
And in another minute the unhappy lad was prostrate before his mother's tomb: all other thoughts had gone from him--Etienne, Pierre, and the rest were forgotten--he was absorbed in the thought of his parent's wrongs, and in the awful responsibility that knowledge had thrust upon him {ix}.
Far to the south of the demesne of Aescendune stretched a wild expanse of woodland, giving shelter to numberless beasts of chase, and well known to our young hero, Wilfred.
It was traversed by one of those vestiges of old times, the Roman roads, and along this ancient trackway the poor lad, eager as the avenger of blood in old times, spurred the good prior's palfrey, which had never borne so impatient a rider before.
Onward, through the starry night, now on the open heath, now buried in the deep shadow of ancient trees, now in the darkness of the valley, then on the upland: here, startling the timid deer; there, startled himself, as the solitary wolf, not yet extinct in those ancient forests, glared at him from bush or brake--so Wilfred rode onward.
It was summer time, and the sun rose early; welcome was its light to our traveller, who rode on, trusting soon to reach a monastic house in the neighbourhood of Banbury, where a few poor English monks, not yet dispossessed by the Norman intruders, served God in their vocation, according to their light, and offered hospitality to the wayfarer.
To these poor monks Wilfred had been commended by the good prior of Aescendune, and with them he purposed to rest all day, for it was not safe to travel before nightfall without a Norman passport. For Norman riders, soldiers of fortune, infested all the highways, and they would certainly require Wilfred, or any other English traveller, to show cause for being on the road, and, in default of such cause, would render very rough usage.
It was now drawing near the third hour of the day, and Wilfred had already spied his resting place from the summit of a hill. In spite of his woes, too, he wanted his breakfast, and was already speculating on the state of the monastic larder, when the road entered a small wood.
It was not a straight road at all, and the rider could not see a hundred yards before him, when suddenly a troop of horse came round a curve at a smart trot, and were upon him before he could escape their notice.
"Whom have we here?" exclaimed the leader.
Wilfred knew him; it was that same Count Eustace de Blois, who had rescued him from danger on the field of Senlac, and taken him to the tent of the Conqueror.
His first impulse was to tell Count Eustace everything and to claim his protection. Then he remembered that this Eustace was the friend of his stepfather, and the distrust--not to say hatred--he was beginning to feel to all Normans overcame, unhappily it may be, the first generous impulse of confidence.
"It is I, Wilfred of Aescendune," he coldly replied.
"So I see," said the Norman, "and marvel to meet thee alone and unattended on the highway, so far from home. Thou hast thy father's permission?"
"I have no father," said Wilfred, in a tone which at once betrayed that something was amiss.
"Stepfather, of course, I would say, and I judge from thy reply that all is not well. Wilt thou not tell me what is wrong?"
"My errand is urgent, and I only crave permission to continue my road in peace."
"You are more likely to continue it in pieces, when so many outlaws and cutthroats are about, and my duty will not suffer thee to go farther till I know that thou hast thy father's, that is, the baron's permission."
Wilfred's only reply was to set spurs to his horse, and to try to escape by flight from his troublesome interrogator; but although he did succeed in clearing the party, his poor palfrey was tired, and the Norman horses were fresh, so the attempt was made in vain; he was pursued and brought back to Eustace de Blois.
"Why didst thou attempt to escape?" said that noble, grimly. "I fear that thou art playing the truant--against thine own interests, and must take thee with me whither I am bound, which happeneth to be Aescendune."
"Nay, I pray thee suffer me to proceed; life and death hang upon my errand."
"Confide in me then, and tell me all."
But Wilfred could not; in his then frame of mind, he could not confide the story of his mother's woes to a Norman--to his fevered mind one of the intruders was as bad as another--as well bring a complaint before one wolf that another wolf had eaten a lamb.
"I cannot," was his reply; "it would be useless if I did."
"Why? I have befriended thee once."
"Art thou not a Norman?"
"Ah! I see where the shoe pinches," replied Eustace; "thou hast found some traitors who have been instilling rebellion into thy youthful ears. Well, if they are found, they shall ere long lack tongues wherewith to prate, and for the present thou must return home with me. Wilt thou go as a freeman or as a prisoner?"
"You have the power and must use it."
"Wilt thou promise not to attempt an escape?"
"No."
"Then I must perforce pass a band from one leg to another, beneath the belly of thy steed, or thou mayst leave thy tired palfrey and ride behind me with a strap binding thee to my belt. Which dost thou choose?"
"Do as it pleaseth thee."
There was a sad, heart-broken tone in Wilfred's voice, in spite of the defiance of his words, which interested the Norman count, who was not, as we have before seen, all steel; and during the journey which Wilfred made as a captive, Eustace made sundry attempts to win the poor youth's confidence, but all in vain.
Riding all day, Wilfred retraced in this ignominious manner the road he had so eagerly traversed under the veil of night; and at length, towards sunset, they came in sight of the priory, the bridge, and the castle of Aescendune.
"I think I may cut these bonds now, and thou needest not be seen to return in the guise of a captive. Once more, tell me all; I will be thy mediator with thy father."
"Father!" repeated Wilfred with an expression indicative of something deeper yet than scorn or hatred, but he said no more.
The blast of trumpets from the approaching troop aroused the inmates of the castle, and they flocked to their battlements to behold the pennon of Eustace de Blois, familiar to them on many a hard-fought field of old.
Immediately there was bustling and saddling, and a troop of horse issued over the drawbridge to greet the coming guest. Foremost amongst them was the grim stepfather, and by his side rode Etienne.
Imagine their surprise when they recognised Wilfred in the train of their visitor; we can hardly paint fitly the scornful looks of Etienne, or the grimness of the stepfather.
But there was etiquette to be consulted--a most important element in the days of chivalry--and no question was asked until all the customary salutations had been made.
"I see my son Wilfred has been the first to welcome thee; may I ask where he met thee on the road?" asked Hugo, of Eustace.
"Many a long mile from here; I will tell thee more anon."
"Did he return of his own free will?" thought the baron, but politeness forced him to wait his guest's own time for the dialogue which he felt awaited him.
Meanwhile Etienne had regaled Wilfred with a succession of scornful glances, which, strange to say, did not affect the latter much--deeper emotions had swallowed up the minor ones, and he could disdain the imputation of cowardice, although he could not but feel that his attempted flight would be ascribed by every one to fear of the combat, which had been offered to, and accepted by him, and from which he could not otherwise have saved himself.
They dismounted within the courtyard, and Hugo made a certain communication to the seneschal. The latter came up to Wilfred as he stood listlessly in the crowd, the object of many a scornful glance.
"The baron, your father, bids you to follow me."
The old retainer led the way up a staircase. On the third floor there was a chamber with a small loophole to serve as window, through which nothing larger than a cat could pass. There was furniture--a rough table and chair, a rude bed, and mattress of straw.
"You are to remain here until my lord comes to release you."
The prisoner entered the chamber, and threw himself wearily on the bed, the door slammed with a heavy sound behind him, the steps of the gaoler (was he any better?) died away in the distance, and all was still, save a faint murmur from the courtyard below, or from the great hall, where the banquet was even now served.
Hours passed away, and a light step was heard approaching--it was certainly not the baron's. Soon a voice was heard through the crevices of the rough planks which formed the door.
"Wilfred, art thou here?"
"I am. Is it thou, Pierre?"
"It is. Why didst thou flee the combat? Thou hast disgraced thyself, and me, too, as thy friend."
"I cannot tell thee."
"Was it not fear, then?"
"It was not."
"Then at least vouchsafe some explanation, that I may justify thee to the others."
"I cannot."
"Thou wilt not."
"If thou wilt have it so."
"Farewell, then; I can be no friend to a coward."
And the speaker departed: Wilfred counted his steps as he went down the stairs. One pang of boyish pride--wounded pride--but it was soon lost in the deeper woe.
A few more minutes and the warder brought the lad his supper. He ate it, and then, wearied out--he had had no rest during the previous night as the reader is aware, and had been in the saddle for twenty hours--wearied out, he slept.
And while he slept the door softly opened, and the baron entered. At the first glance he saw the lad was fast asleep, as his heavy and regular breathing indicated. He did not awake him, but gazed upon the features of the boy he had so deeply injured, with an expression wherein there was no lingering remorse, but simply a deep and deadly hatred. At length he was about to awake the sleeper, when he saw the end of a packet of parchment protrude from the breast of the tunic. The baron drew it softly out.
It was the letter of Father Elphege to the Bishop of Coutances.
The baron was scholar enough to read it--few Normans were so, and fewer English nobles; but he was an exception. He read and knew all; he read, and blanched a deadly white as he did so; his knees shook together, and a cold sweat covered his face.
It was known, then; to how many? Probably only to the prior and Wilfred, for it was but a dying confession of yesterday, as he gathered from the letter.
A sudden resolution came upon him; he did not awake the sleeper, but retired to digest it at his ease in the security of his own chamber.
It was but little sleep the baron took that night. Hour after hour the sentinel heard him pacing to and fro. Had any one seen him, he would have judged that Hugo was passing through a terrible mental conflict.
"No, I cannot do it," he said, as if to some unseen prompter.
"It is the only way; crush all thine enemies at once, let not even a dog survive to bark at thee."
"But what would the world say?"
"The world need not know, if thou contrivest well."
"But such secrets will out--a bird of the air would carry the matter, if none else did."
"Such are the bogies with which nurses frighten children. Art thou not a man and a Norman?"
"But the poor monks--if they were but soldiers."
"The less crime if they perish--they are fitter to die; and they are but English swine, like their neighbours, of whom thou hast slain so many."
So, through the long hours did the Prince of Darkness commune with his destined prey. There are periods of temptation which none know in their intensity, save such as have by long habit encouraged the Evil One to tempt them--who have swallowed bait after bait, until they can digest a very large hook at last.
At length, just as the dawn was reddening the skies, the baron threw himself upon his pallet and slept, not the sleep of the innocent, for his features moved convulsively again and again, and sometimes it seemed as if he were contending with some fearful adversary in his dreams.
But no angel of good stood near his couch; long since had continual indulgence in evil driven his guardian away, and Satan had all his own way.
The sounds of life and activity were many about the castle, and still Hugo arose not, until the third or fourth hour. Then he swallowed hastily a cup of generous Gascon wine, and a crust of toasted bread, steeped in the liquor; after which he mounted his favourite steed, a high horse of great spirit, not to say viciousness, which none save himself cared to ride, and galloped furiously for hours through the forest, startling the timid deer and her fawn from many a brake.
It was evening when he returned: Wilfred had not yet been released.
Count Eustace had departed, not until he had sought an interview with Wilfred, in his prison chamber, which turned out to be a fruitless one; for, terrified although he was at the loss of his letter, the youth kept his secret.
It was a pity that he did so. Many a sad page yet to be written might have been saved. But was it unnatural that the poor orphan should feel an invincible reluctance to claim Norman aid? yet the Bishop of Coutances was Norman.
At length, supper being ready, Hugo came in and took his usual place at the head of the high table. All trace of his mental struggles was gone.
"Bring my son Wilfred down to the hall."
The attendants hasted, and soon reappeared with the English heir of Aescendune.
He was calm and composed--that unhappy youth; he looked the baron straight in the face, he did not honour Etienne or any one else with a single glance; but waited to be questioned.
"Wilfred of Aescendune," said his stepfather, "why didst thou absent thyself yesterday, and traverse dangerous roads without permission?"
No answer.
"Didst thou fly because thou fearedst the combat, which thine own unmannerly insolence had brought upon thee?"
"No."
It was the only word Wilfred spoke, and that with emphasis. Etienne sneered.
"Perhaps thou mightest not have fled hadst thou known that the combat would have been a mere form. I had instructed the marshal of the lists to prevent deadly results."
Again Etienne cast a look at his companions, which seemed to give the lie to these words.
"Wilt thou promise to make no further attempt to leave the demesne without permission if thou art released from superveillance?"
"No," once more.
"Then I will no longer retain the charge of thee. Thou shalt go and do penance at the priory of thy sainted namesake, till thou dost come to a better mind. I will send thee after supper, and give fitting charge to Father Elphege."
Wilfred was forced to sit down during the meal, but he ate nothing.
When it was ended, the baron called old Osbert the seneschal and gave his instructions. They led the youth away; he did not return the baron's half-ironical salutation, but departed with his guards in silence.
High was the wassail in the castle that night, and many casks of wine were broached; at length all sought their couches and slept heavily.
But in the middle of the night many sleepers were aroused by the cry of FIRE! yet so heavy with wine were they, that few arose; hut most heard it as a man hears some sound in his sleep, which he half suspects to belong to dreamland, and turns again to his pillow.
Imagine the surprise with which such men (including Etienne, Pierre, and the other late companions of the unhappy Wilfred) learned that the monastery had caught fire accidentally in the night, and that so sudden had been the conflagration that none had escaped.
None! No; so far as men could discover. The priory built by Offa of Aescendune was a heap of smoking embers, and monks were there none, neither had any heard aught of the English heir of Aescendune.
The poor English who yet remained in the village were weeping over their lost friends, and the very Norman men-at-arms were hushed in the presence of their sorrow.
The shades of evening fell upon the desolate ruins, but nought had occurred to alleviate the calamity: all seemed to have perished unaided in the suddenness of their destruction--a thing improbable--unheard of--yet so it was.
All seemed over--the English brethren and their guest blotted out from the earth. And none looked more contented than Baron Hugo.